


Alone

by GenerallyHuxurious (GallifreyanOmnishambles)



Series: Huxurious Huxloween [18]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: AU Crossover, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Buried Alive, Character Death, Claustrophobia, Denial, Gun Violence, Head Injury, Homophobic Language, Implied Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knives, M/M, Matt Isn't Kylo, Multiple Selves, Threats of Violence, Unconsciousness, Urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyanOmnishambles/pseuds/GenerallyHuxurious
Summary: Set in the Modern Emperors Universe. Hux wakes up alone in the dark, he has no memory of how he got there and he's covered in blood. How can it get any worse?Huxloween Day 20





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fedaykin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedaykin/gifts).



The first thing that struck him when he awoke was not the cold, or the dark, or the splitting headache.

It was the silence.

Hux had never experienced a silence this profound or absolute. 

There was nothing. No engine noise, no footsteps, no air processors, not even the natural sounds of a structure settling around him. Just his own breathing and his own heartbeat.

Keeping quite still on the hardwood floor he took stock of the situation. He had been unconscious, better to continue to feign that state for now. Just because he couldn’t hear any movement that didn’t mean he wasn’t being monitored. Wherever he was he’d been brought here for a reason.

First his focused on assessing his physical state. 

Ribbons of pain were radiating from his left temple to settle as a dull throb that seemed to fill his entire skull. His face and hair felt tight across the left side and under his neck. Probably drying blood from a head wound. There was a soreness to his wrists, shoulders and ankles- he’d likely been dragged or carried to this location by the extremities. 

Lastly, there was something wrong with his chest. He couldn’t breath deeply. Anything more than a slow shallow inhale and carefully controlled exhale sent knife sharp pains through his entire torso. If he tried to stand he’d be pretty much incapacitated anyway. Not good. 

There was something about the silence, the weight and depth of it, that tugged at his consciousness. Something that made his heart want to race. He ignored it. 

Be slow. Careful. Methodical. 

Without moving, could he establish what resources he had?

Where had he been before he woke up? What exactly had he been carrying with him then?

He couldn’t remember.

What was the last thing he did remember?

Hux had woken up at home. Taken a shower. Made coffee… No. Two coffees. And taken them… down to the basement? Why would he have two coffees, and why on earth wouldn’t he drink them in the kitchen… There was nothing else then, until he was shaving in front of a bathroom mirror in black dress pants and a black undershirt. Not the bathroom attached to his room though. Why had he shaved in one of the basement bathrooms?

Except he hadn’t shaved. He could feel the carefully maintained stubble on his cheeks shifting awkwardly against the dried blood as he breathed. Was he remembering another day entirely?

It seemed likely. He wasn’t wearing an undershirt now. The pain in his chest made his skin tender enough to sense that he was only wearing a thin button down shirt, and possibly jeans. 

Hux flexed his feet. He wasn’t even wearing shoes.

His toes had touched a wooden surface. 

The oppressive silence filled his mind once more. 

Carefully he moved his left hand outward. 

Wood. Poor quality, unfinished wood. 

And then his right.

Wood.

His heart rate skipped and leapt to the conclusion his mind was trying not to acknowledge.

With slow deliberate care Hux slid his fingers and toes upward. 

He felt splinters catch in the fabric of his socks and under his nails as his limbs mapped the surface. 

Two feet up from the floor beneath him the walls stopped. 

There was more wood above him.

His hands traced slowly over the surface behind his head. There wasn’t much of it. Less than six inches behind his crown was another board.

He wasn’t laying on a floor.

He was in a crate. 

What could he do.

Totally alone, shut in a freezing cold crate, wearing nothing but a cotton shirt, dress jeans and thin formal socks. He had a head wound, a chest injury and all his weapons were gone. 

Hux considered for a moment. He’d kept still because he hadn’t wanted to attract his captors attention but now it seemed like the only way he could gain a way out. 

Everyone wanted something. He just had to get someone to listen to him while he offered it. Whatever ‘it’ turned out to be. 

Determined now to make as much noise as possible Hux raised a fist and thumped the roof of the crate as hard as he could. 

He hissed in pain, cradling his bruised hand against his chest.

Instead of the loud hollow thump he’d been expecting the crate to make, there was only a muted thwack. The wood hadn’t moved at all, almost as if there were something behind it. 

The thick silence intruded on his thoughts again and this time there was no way to think around it.

Hux wasn’t in a crate at all. 

He was in a coffin.

He’d been intentionally buried alive. 

In that moment his mind, already struggling against a head wound and limited oxygen, chose unconsciousness in favour of panic. In many ways it was preferable. 

\-----

Wiping his hands on the front of his horrible green overalls, Matt congratulated himself on a job well done as he shambled across the empty park towards his truck. 

The boss was going to be so pleased with him. 

It was rare that anyone trusted Matt with the important jobs. They took one look at his expressive face, terrible glasses, and slouching gait and dismissed him as too stupid for the ‘real’ work. Those that spent anytime in his company would add his epic temper tantrums and total lack of social skills to that list of reasons. Like he could even be content in the role of just another muscular, anonymous hired goon.

But this was going to be the job that changed all that, he could feel it in his bones. 

He'd taken the initiative for once. He had. Just him. All by himself.

The others had been discussing the original plan for weeks, and Matt had long since known it by heart.

Hux was going to be at a particular bar at a particular time. Like the vain little prick that he was, he'd inevitably go to the men's room to check his hair. They’d grab him, knock him out, box him up and put him in the hole Matt would be forced to spend all damn day digging in the Gilman Playground. 

That  _ had _ been the plan. Matt had hated it. 

Working on the theory that any person in a neon vest could do anything they liked in a public space so long as they did it with confidence, Matt had started digging the hole two days in advance. He was a strong guy with great muscles, if he did say so himself, but digging graves really was the worst. He'd managed to a make hole three feet deep and then he'd gotten bored. Why did it need to be six feet? A man a foot below the surface was going to suffocatejust as quickly as he would at six. And if anyone found him, well, that'd just show the city what happened to people who offended his boss.

Bored out of his mind Matt had wandered five blocks East and had been amazed to see Hux sitting near the windows in some fancy bar, fourhours before they were supposed to grab him.

Matt had always found the idea of a gay assassin vaguely laughable, but seeing the smarmy bastard arguing with some skinny twink with oily hair and a military fixation had convinced Matt that Hux couldn't really be all that. 

He'd been absolutely certain of it five minutes later when he'd taken him out in the men's room armed with just a length of pipe and the element of surprise.

Hux had tried to dodge and the first blow had glanced off his forehead rather than crushing the temporal bone as Matt had intended, but it was a small room and Matt had the advantage of weight and reach. A solid kick to the sternum and Hux had gone down, bouncing his skull against the sink on the way. 

It hadn't killed him, but it had knocked him out cold, which had been enough for Matt to bundle him up in garbage bags and carry him back to the hole he'd prepared. 

Of course he'd looked exactly like he was carrying a body wrapped in garbage bags, but he was a 6’3” blond man in a neon orange vest casually carrying a body through the early evening streets. No one had looked twice.

Now Hux was in the ground three hours ahead of schedule and the rest of the team could take the night off content in the knowledge that Matt had sorted everything out.

The boss was going to be so pleased with him.

“Where is he?” 

The voice was vaguely British, like a villain in a Bond movie. It had a sharp, forced quality to it that made Matt suspect it's owner was narrow chested and not as strong as he'd like to sound. Not that it matter how he sounded since the owner of the voice was also pressing the cold muzzle of a gun to the base of Matt’s skull.

Rolling his eyes Matt could just make out their shadows in his blurry peripheral vision. It was hard to see without the aid of his corrective lenses but the man's outline looked much, much thinner than his own.

The twink then. Matt had assumed the man would just think his date, or possibly client, had walked out on him. He had not expected the skinny little thing to follow him. 

Oh well. He'd just have to kill him too. 

“Or what?” Matt all but barked at the man behind him, shifting his feet slightly as he prepared to turn and strike. “You're going to kill me? That won't help your friend will it? I ain't gonna tell you where he is whatever you say, so I guess he's dead either way, huh?”

There was a noise that might have been a laugh, or possibly a snort, and Matt felt the man behind him step closer.

“Kill you? Oh no, no, that's not at all what I had in mind.” 

Matt frowned, confused. Why did the back of his overalls suddenly feel hot and wet? Had this sick fuck just  _ pissed _ on him?!

The clipped and prissy voice continued without a pause, “no, no I’m afraid that death would be far, far too good for you. You look like a strong healthy specimen, why would I let you have a nice clean death when you could so easily survive being taken apart? And I do mean that quite literally.”

Irritated by the amateur dramatics Matt tried to spin in place, intending to knock the gun from this disgusting little pervert’s hand and beat him into a smear across the sidewalk. Instead he screamed as his movement drove the scalpel in his side even deeper. He hadn't even noticed the man had stabbed him.

“Shush, shush, that attitude won't help you.” The voice said, twisting the blade and dragging leather gloved knuckles over the unexpectedly wide wound in Matt's lower back.

The wet heat on his back was his own blood.

“How did you…”

“Oh I hardly think that's any of your business.” Came the baffling reply. “What  _ is _ your business would be the fact that I could easily reach into your abdominal cavity and rip out a kidney from here. It's a simple enough process, though I might bring some intestinal tract with it. It would be difficult to see in this light… Do you know what human flesh tastes like? Would you like to find out? Look at you, so big, so muscular. Do you know how many milliliters of blood a human body contains? Do you know how much a person can lose each day without dying? I know.”

“Sick freak.” Matt hissed, trying to ignore the wetness draining into his boots, trying to convince himself that he hadn't just pissed himself in response to such melodramatic but self assured threats. 

“Hmmmm.” The sound had a smile to it that snapped off with the next question. “Where is he?”

“You’ll let me go if I tell you?” Matt asked with misplaced hope.

“No. But I might let you die sooner, once you've dug him up.”

“He's probably already dead you know.”

“No. If you used one of the crates in the back of your vehicle he had about six hours of oxygen. He's only been missing for two.”

Matt glanced around, desperate and barely able to think over the pain in his back. He spotted a potential weapon. “I need the shovel. He's buried deep.”

“No. You'll use your hands. If you aren't fast enough then you’ll lose them first. Tell me, do you know what ‘degloving’ is? I think we would start there.”

With a heartfelt whimper, Matt threw himself to the ground and began to dig.

\-----

The second time Hux awoke in his narrow wooden prison it was to the sound of thumping, scrabbling, and crying.

He didn't know how long he'd been out. He felt faint but he couldn't tell if that the effect of his injuries or the oxygen supply.

Somehow the thought of rescue getting to him too late made him breathe harder than the thought of no rescue at all.

“Break it open.” The voice was familiar but muffled.

“I can't, not without the shovel.” That voice he didn't know at all.

“You can, and you will.”

“I'll break my hands!” The second voice wheedled. 

“I can remove them if you feel your radius is better suited to the job.” The first voice paused, as if considering while the second sobbed and whimpered. “Or I could remove your arms to the elbow. With biceps like that I’m sure your humerus would be perfectly sufficient to break through something like this.”

Hux had just enough presence of mind to cover his airways and close his eyes as the wood above him splintered.

The figures above him were indistinct in the moonlight. One was kneeling almost on top of him. Judging by his tear streaked face that was the owner of the second voice. 

“Eamon?” The owner of the first voice was a slender black clad figure holding a gun. He recognised him, of course he did, but how could he be himself?

“Hux?” He groaned stupidly, his brain refusing to fire through the pain. Wasn't  _ he _ Hux?

The crying man whipped around at the name and then collapsed against the side of the open grave, glasses broken and cheek split open by the backhanded blow from the slender figure’s gun hand. 

“What the fuck?”  The bleeding man groaned. “How the fuck are there two of…”

“Do you have his phone?”

“Fuck yo…. ARGH Jesus fuck, you cut my ear off!”

“Do.You.Have.Eamon’s.Phone?”

“Here! Take it you sick, fucking fa…” 

There was the quiet zip of a silenced gunshot and a fine warm mist settled over Eamon’s face as the corpse slumped to the ground.

“You,” Eamon began quietly, groaning for a moment as pain tore through his head. “You won't be able to unlock my phone, it's fingerprint…”

“Not a concern,” The man said lightly, his face suddenly illuminated as the phone mysteriously unlocked under his thumb. There was an awkward pause. “Eamon, none of these contacts have names. Which is Mr Morgan?”

“Who?”

“Frell.” The man sighed. “Can you stand?”

Eamon shook his head, then groaned. 

“Kriffing hell.” Carefully the man climbed into the grave, perching rather delicately on one of the corpse’s boots as he poked at Eamon’s phone. He muttered to himself as he typed. “Google. Peth Isk Esk Trill Trill…. Call… Ah, Hello Lieuten… I mean  _ Mr _ Mitaka, my name is Auren Hux, we met last month? I urgently need to speak to Capt…  _ Ms _ Phasma regarding Eamon Hux…”

Auren. 

**_Oh_ ** . 

Something in Eamon’s mind realigned. Perhaps it was the fresh air. 

That's why he remembered shaving when he hadn't. He'd brought Auren coffee, watched, and then hindered, his morning routine and eventually dragged him back to bed. They were so alike his brain had assumed they were one and the same.

Carefully he wrapped one tired arm around the other man’s, the other him’s, booted calf.

Absently, Auren placed one cool hand over Eamon’s own.

Perhaps that wasn't too large an assumption to make.

He had a head wound. He shouldn't sleep again. So instead Eamon settled for watching Auren’s mouth fold around that calm almost-British accent while he tried to explain into the phone exactly where they were.

Given that the man could barely read street signs yet, rescue might be some time away. Hopefully it would arrive before anyone else noticed the two identical men sitting on an open grave with a fresh corpse.

When had Eamon's life gotten so weird that  _ that _ had seemed like a reasonable sentence to think?

**Author's Note:**

> For Fedaykin, who is a rock star, she sent me the prompt "Unbind Me - one character freeing another."
> 
> Inspired by my mom's favourite episode of CSI :D


End file.
